


Sanctuary

by cywscross



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Animal Shelter, Alternate Universe - Human, Animals, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Older Stiles Stilinski, Past Character Death, Scars, Veterinarian Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4301097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a vet, he runs the animal shelter that his parents left him, and he’s looking to hire some extra help. It takes a while to find someone suitable, but the wait is worth it when he finally hits jackpot in the form of a man broken by life.</p><p>Peter's just looking for a place to belong in a world that has long since moved on without him. Who knew he'd find it in an amber-eyed vet with a family made up of animals and a past entwined with his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting a lot of Steter fluff lately so I wrote another little something. This one's not really being actively worked on but it's cute and relaxing for me to write.

 

Stiles is a vet, but he also runs the animal shelter that his parents left him, and he’s been looking to hire some extra help for some time now, but help doesn’t come easy. He’s had other applicants come for a trial run but either they can’t put enough hours into the job or they rapidly lose interest when they realize exactly how much effort and devotion is needed to care for the assortment of animals that the shelter is home to.

Stiles is picky about the people he lets into his shelter. He loves all the animals he’s rescued and welcomed into his home over the years, and even if it means so much more work for him, he won’t let just anyone take care of his eclectic, makeshift family.

He has high standards. It makes him wonder if there’ll ever be anyone who will be able to meet them.

 

* * *

 

Peter is the only survivor of the fire that robbed him of most of his family, a former coma patient recently woken and finally back on his feet but completely alone in a town full of people who can’t seem to look at his scarred appearance without pity or revulsion, or simply can’t look at him at all. Job-hunting isn’t going well because of that exact reason (employers can’t have someone like Peter scaring customers away), but he needs a job, if only to _do_ something with the tattered remains of his life, and because his bank account won’t last forever. Well, it might – he earned a lot as a lawyer – but he would still need to stretch what he has very carefully for the rest of his life, so it’s simply smarter to find a steady source of income again. He downright refuses to stoop to asking for some of the family and insurance money that his nieces and nephew took with them when they fled both town and bad memories, thereby abandoning Peter to suffer alone in a hospital for six years, locked inside his own body with nothing but pain and grief for company.

Coffee shops and bookstores and restaurants alike have all turned him away. He’d need to retake the bar exam to become a lawyer again but he’s lost all his clients anyway, and he doesn’t feel like building his reputation back up from scratch all over again.

He may have to do exactly that if he can’t find a different job though.

He’s taking a walk in a less busy part of town to avoid the stares and whispers when he sees it –  _Paws & Claws_, the worn sign says, and Peter happens upon it just in time to see a young man shove another man out the door, amber eyes flashing under the sunlight, a borderline snarl fixed on his face, and evidently taking no shit from the red-faced, fuming individual currently being chased out.

From the snatches of conversation Peter picks up, the guy is getting his pampered ass fired for texting when he should’ve been working, and then trying to kick one of the cats that scratched him when the idiot attempted to change a water bowl one-handed and ended up splashing the cat.

“The pay sucked anyway!” The man spits out before storming away, his precious phone still clenched in one hand. “You think you’ll be able to keep this place open? I bet all your damn pets will be out of a home by the end of the year!”

Peter lingers, watching as the guy disappears around a corner and the apparent owner of what seems to be an animal shelter runs an exhausted hand through his hair before stooping down to scoop up the cat that’s nosed its way out the door and was twining around the man’s legs. Even from this distance, Peter can hear it purr as it snuggles into the shelter owner’s arms.

He should move on now. The spectacle is over. But... there seems to be a job opening. And... animals wouldn’t care what he looks like, right?

 

* * *

 

Jackson was a douche anyway; if Stiles wasn’t so desperate and sleep-deprived at the time, he wouldn’t have hired the guy in the first place, and even though he’s alone again with a few dozen animals all depending on him once more, he can’t say he’s sorry to see Whittemore go.

He sighs. Hell, if he doesn’t have so many animals to take care of, he wouldn’t be trying to hire someone at all. He’d be the first in line to admit that he isn’t all that great with people. He’s far better with animals, especially after both his parents died. He’s not a shut-in or anything but the only human being he regularly talks to these days is Scott, and even then, it’s over the phone. He hasn’t actually seen his childhood best friend since Scott followed his girlfriend across the country for college several years ago.

Stiles doesn’t really mind. He has his animals – the ones that come and go, and the ones that have stayed with him for years now – and they make him happy, even if it can be stressful at times.

The Himalayan cat in his arms meows at him sternly, and he obediently runs a soothing hand along Persephone’s flank, so very glad that Jackson missed when he tried to kick her. Stiles would’ve quite possibly murdered the bastard otherwise.

He senses eyes on him, and when he looks up, he finds a dark-haired guy in a coat with a high collar staring back at him with unblinking blue eyes. Stiles frowns, shifting his weight uneasily before turning to let Persephone down, ushering her back into the safety of his shelter.

He glances back, and the man is still staring. It’s strange, but something draws him away from the door and towards the stranger.

And up close, even with the collar obscuring part of the man’s face, Stiles can see the scars marring the right side, remnants of burns that have left their mark.

Only one person could have such terrible burn scars. Stiles reads the paper, not to mention he knows about the Hale fire in far more intimidate detail than he’d like to, and Beacon Hills is – in the end – a small town. He knows about the miracle patient that nobody expected would survive the Hale fire that put the only survivor in a coma, especially after six years.

So this is Peter Hale.

It takes only a single short second to register the scars, but when Stiles meets the other man’s eyes, the blue is already crystallized to ice, and the smile he wears – one that stretches his disfigured features somewhat grotesquely – is equal parts tight and closed off and cold.

Stiles doesn’t let it bother him. He can guess how most people have looked at the man thus far, and he figures Peter Hale of all people – after everything the guy’s been through – has the right to respond to any perceived attacks with emotional shields fully raised.

That doesn’t really excuse him from standing in front of Stiles’ animal shelter and creepily staring though. Not in Stiles’ books.

“Hi, is there something I can help you with?”  Stiles greets him cautiously, ignoring the tension already settling between them.

He gets studied (stared at) intently for several awkward seconds longer before the man finally speaks in a cultured but clipped and slightly hoarse voice, “I’m looking for a job. It seems you have an opening.”

Stiles blinks, not expecting that. “Um…”

He gives the man a more critical up-down examination. Hale is on the thin side, moderately broad-shouldered but not particularly muscular, and what Stiles can see of his clothes underneath the relatively baggy coat hangs off his frame just a bit, as if Hale bought them according to the sizes he used to wear, only to realize that they were now a little too large but simply couldn’t be bothered to exchange them. There’s a gauntness to his cheeks too, and perhaps a slightly forced confidence in the rigid line of his shoulders, an insistent _I’m fine, I’m not weak, fuck off_ in the stiffness of his posture for the world to see.

Stiles is rather good at reading body language, at hearing what’s unspoken. Animals are all about wordless communication after all.

Hale stands about an inch shorter than Stiles, hands buried in his coat’s pockets, one desperate, defiant step away from outright huddling into his coat and maybe hiding from every prying gaze out there, from a world that moved on without him, and to Stiles, all of it just makes Hale seem that much more fragile no matter what mask he portrays to the public.

When Stiles glances up again, he’s met with traces of anger and a veil of frosty resentment, but underneath that is a bitter, tired sort of resignation, like he knows Stiles will turn him away.

Is that why Hale is applying here of all places?  Because he can’t find work anywhere else in Beacon Hills?

Stiles’ shelter isn’t that popular, isn’t very large or glamorous or well-known; sometimes, it even gets a bit difficult to make ends meet, since Stiles would rather euthanize _himself_ than ever abandon or – short of an incurable disease – put down any of the animals he manages to save, even as they get older and nobody qualified wants to adopt them, so some end up staying their entire lives, which gets expensive more often than not, and Stiles doesn’t get that many donations, doesn’t have time for fundraising, and he’s not a full-time vet so it isn’t as if he’s raking in cash that way either.

That’s the one problem with an animal shelter that used to be purely family-run. The Stilinskis never had volunteers apart from one or two on occasion, and those weren’t strictly necessary either, but then his uncle – the only member of the family who didn’t work with animals, and even then he helped out in his free time when he wasn’t putting out fires – died trying to save the Hales, his cousin was killed in a car accident on her way home, his aunt followed her husband and daughter across Death’s threshold when her depression became too much for her to handle, his mother sickened and passed away soon after, and his father died of a broken heart, leaving Stiles alone with a shelter full of animals and too much work on his hands for mere volunteers to put up with. He’s tried to go it alone for over two years now but he’s known for months that he needs at least one extra pair of hands around, and the only way he’s been able reel anybody in for any period of time is by offering to pay them.

“I’m just wondering how much you can lift,” Stiles blurts out abruptly when he realizes that the silence has stretched for far too long, and Hale looks ready to simply walk away without waiting for a verbal dismissal. “It’s- Have you worked with animals before? It’s fine if you haven’t – I can show you the ropes – but there’s heavy-lifting involved sometimes, and you can’t just work here part-time either; there’s- there’s a lot to do. It’s… demanding, this job, and the long hours can be hell; I have cats and dogs and birds and rabbits and some other wildlife I’ve saved, and if you deliberately neglect or hurt any of them in any way, I will kill you and no one will ever find your body.”

Stiles says all this with utmost sincerity, words weighted with promise. He’s warned people before, and they always laughed like they think Stiles is joking, but he really, really isn’t, and he knows he could probably get away with murder. He has enough experience with burials and even cremations, and these animals are his _life_. Anyone who hurts them is free game and will receive no mercy from him.

It’s Hale’s turn to blink, looking faintly taken aback at the onslaught of words from Stiles. One corner of his mouth ticks up in a brief approximation of amusement when Stiles threatens him, which he totally shouldn’t because Stiles is _serious_.

“Rest assured, no one cares enough to find my body if I do suddenly kick the bucket, even under mysterious circumstances,” Hale replies with sardonic cynicism, which, _what_. Stiles eyes him suspiciously. Hale only flicks a glance at the shelter before looking back at Stiles again. “If it’s bags of food and other supplies, I’ll manage. I’ve lost muscle mass but I’ve regained some of it too.”

Stiles rocks back on his heels. He stomps down on the involuntary embarrassment, steels himself, and admits, “I… can’t pay you much either. For all the work you’ll be doing, it’ll probably be too little.”

Hale arches an eyebrow – the one that isn’t ravaged by scars – and asks for the hourly wage. Stiles gives him the number and braces himself for an argument or a sneer.

Hale offers neither. He tips his head to the side in thought for a second, two, and then nods. “That would be acceptable.”

Stiles stares for a moment before scoffing out a weary laugh. “Yeah, no, how ’bout I give you a trial run first; then we’ll see if you’ll still be saying that.”

He hesitates before hastily extending a hand. “I’m Stiles. Stilinski. Just Stiles is fine though.”

Hale looks at his hand like it might bite or strike him before slowly retrieving his own hand from his pocket and accepting it. The skin of his wrist – peeking out from beneath the sleeve – is partially scarred too, but his hand at least seems strong and capable. Hale has a firm grip, and Stiles makes sure to return it.

“Peter. Hale.” The man’s lip curls. His eyes look empty. “Just Peter is fine.”

Stiles nods once before turning and leading Peter inside.

He wonders if this one will work out.

He hopes so, if only for the sake of his animals.

But, well, he has his doubts. After all, no one else has been able to meet his expectations. Why would Peter Hale be any different?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while but I was in need of something fluffy.

 

It is… back-breaking work, Peter quickly comes to realize.  Not all the time, but there is so much to do that he has to wonder how Stiles has managed to maintain this shelter so well by himself.  The place certainly isn’t the biggest shelter he’s ever seen, but it’s spacious enough to accommodate the number of animals inside, certainly big enough to require at least a handful of people working there, and it’s as meticulously clean as physically possible.  Stiles doesn’t cut corners when it comes to the upkeep of the various rooms, feeding areas, and litter boxes, all separated by fencing, like children’s playpens instead of rows of metal cages or anything of that sort, and with the way he keeps a sharp eye on Peter, it’s clear that Stiles won’t accept anything less than the best for his animals from anyone else either.

It’s grueling work, feeding and cleaning and playing and walking, always something to do, and Peter finds himself exhausted at the end of each of the four days he’s agreed to commit to this job even after just a single week.  Hell, he’s sore from head to toe by the second week, and Stiles is right about one thing – the meager pay is definitely not worth the labour Peter has to put in.

But… well.

There’s a cat – not the Maine Coon, Myfanwy, who seems to be Stiles’ favourite and isn’t up for adoption – but a relatively small silvery-grey Siberian with black markings named Cappella, abandoned in a gutter a year ago, according to Stiles, who stumbled on her by chance.  And the very first time Peter sat down for a ten-minute break, she wandered right up, jumped onto his lap, nimbly clambered her way onto his chest without caring about the pinpricks she was poking into his shirt, and promptly curled up for a snooze like she had every right to make Peter her new bed.

Peter tried to push her off.  ‘Tried’ being the keyword.  Cappella opened one eye and glared at him before going back to sleep.

Stiles laughed when he saw them.  Told Peter that it took the longest time for Cappella to warm up to Stiles even though she was just a kitten back when he first took her in, and the people who’ve wandered in looking to adopt were viciously hissed at if they happened to approach her, never mind touch her.

Peter is secretly pathetically pleased about this even though he tries to fend her off at first, with zero success.  Cats do whatever they want and human opinions apparently just don’t factor in.  He doesn’t want to get attached but Cappella swiftly becomes his favourite all the same.  She doesn’t follow him around, but she always appears when he looks for her.  She likes music, Stiles tells him – choir, opera, anything vocal but not too explosive.  Stiles found out when he turned the radio on one day and the Siberian curled up next to it all afternoon.  It’s why he gave her the name Cappella.

Peter likes the other animals too, even if they don’t all like him, especially since he’s only starting, but he’d have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to notice how much they _all_ love Stiles, even the more reticent animals.  Because Stiles loves them, every single one.  There’s a fox with a broken leg in the attached clinic that growls at Peter but melts for Stiles.  Peter has no idea how Stiles is planning to make sure the thing doesn’t follow him home once it’s released back into the wild.

His new boss has a way with animals, cherishes them like Peter once cherished his family, and it’s almost… almost magical whenever he can spare a bit of time to just watch Stiles interact with the shelter’s residents.

Of course, what’s even more magical is the fact that Stiles doesn’t stare.  At Peter.  At all.  Their initial meeting had Peter inwardly dreading all future encounters, but Stiles’ gaze hasn’t lingered once on his scars since sizing him up the first time, and on hindsight, Stiles did imply that he was simply wondering how strong Peter was and whether or not he could handle the type of work that would be required of him.

Stiles doesn’t treat him the way most people treat him, like a cripple, like something to feel sorry for, like it’s shameful to be a survivor.  He orders Peter around without reservations, and he pays an abundance of attention to his beloved animals and exactly zero attention to anything related to Peter’s past.

Conversation is a little stilted at first, and Stiles is visibly uncomfortable around him, but after even just a few days of observation, Peter gets the impression that the awkwardness is actually mostly due to the fact that his employer doesn’t seem to have all that much contact with other human beings.  Animals, definitely, but humans? Not so much.

As far as Peter knows, Stiles works at the shelter around the clock, never leaving unless it’s for supplies that can’t be delivered.  Peter can also count the number of people who have visited _Paws & Claws_ in the past week on one hand and still have fingers left over.  The lack of regular customers coming and going obviously isn’t what you’d call good for business but Peter personally can’t complain.  He likes not having to deal with other people, and Stiles clearly feels the same, always preferring his animals over just about anything else, sometimes even meals.  Occasionally, when Peter stops for his lunch break, he considers reminding his boss to eat, but they aren’t that close yet, neither of them all that invested in the other, so Peter keeps his mouth shut.

When they do talk – a little more every few days, during lunch break or when they’re working side by side – Stiles never pries, never fishes for gossip, and he either lavishes stories about one animal or another on Peter, or he explains whatever task Peter has to do.  It’s only near the end of the second week that Stiles – when they’re both snacking on sandwiches in the kitchenette – starts rambling about books and movies, a topic raised just to pass the time.

And Peter finds himself willing enough to respond.

Stiles takes it in stride whenever he notices Peter stumbling over something he hasn’t watched ( _hasn’t been able to watch_ ), and he ends up recommending this movie or that show that he thinks Peter should take the time to see.

(Peter already went through every available Marvel movie in one sitting the day after Stiles thrusts a list of must-sees into his hands right before he leaves.  His boss spent an entire hour raving about them so Peter figured he may as well try them, and it was better than sitting in his apartment and staring at a wall.)

(He tells Stiles the next day that he likes Loki.  Stiles agrees but remarks that Peter is more Tony.

“Clever and sarcastic with a shipload of issues?” Peter enquires dryly.  It comes out sounding less like a joke than he wants it to.

“Clever and sarcastic and trying,” Stiles corrects, and it’s the closest they’ve ever come to one of the cracks in Peter’s armour.

Peter doesn’t quite know what to say, any possible words withering away in his throat.  Stiles just quirks a smile at him, and it’s so genuinely, unfamiliarly _kind_ that it makes something in Peter _ache_.

Cappella sits on him, licks his scarred cheek a few times, and then proceeds to wash her own face.  Stiles goes back to work.  Peter joins him after the Siberian is finished her self-grooming and finally deigns to let Peter back on his feet.

They don’t mention it again that day, but more than once, Peter catches himself watching Stiles for seemingly no reason at all.  If Stiles notices the thousand-yard looks from Peter, he doesn’t say a word.)

It isn’t as if his employer is hard on the eyes either.  On the contrary, Stiles is all lean lines and lithe muscle and whiskey-gold eyes that remind Peter of sunlight in the autumn.  The younger man has an occasionally whacky sense of humour that crops up at the strangest of times, but he also has a quick wit, and a penchant for banter that matches Peter’s rusty snark exceptionally well.

All in all, Peter can do much worse when it comes to bosses.  He should know; he’s _met_ worse in his previous job interviews.

It’s hard work.  Harder than Peter expected when he started.  But… he likes it too, the atmosphere, the animals, and even the company, which is a surprise because he didn’t think he would ever enjoy anything ever again, especially not another person’s presence.  In fact, he thought he’d find companionship suffocating at best because he can’t _stand_ pity these days, and people can’t seem to interact with him nowadays without it.  But Stiles doesn’t look at him, talk to him, _smile_ at him, with anything of the sort, and that – apparently – makes all the difference despite the fact that the two of them are still only starting to get to know each other.

Overall, Peter feels comfortable in _Paws & Claws_, and even though the only things he can summon the energy to do after getting off work is eat, shower, and fall straight into bed for at least a few dreamless hours before the nightmares set in, he still finds himself wanting to go in on the three days that he _doesn’t_ have to work.

He wonders if Stiles would let him if he asks.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is thrilled.  Overjoyed, in fact.  Peter Hale is a godsend.  Stiles should’ve known the moment Capella started crawling all over him that he’d found someone special.

It’s not even that Peter is as much of an animal lover as Stiles; it’s just that… animals don’t judge.  Well, they do, but they don’t judge you by human standards, for things you have no control over, things that aren’t your fault.  They’ll like you if you treat them with care, if you’re kind to them, if you’re patient even when they’re still wary of you, and you never have to pretend to be anything but yourself with them.

And Peter probably needs that more than he’ll ever admit.  Besides, animal therapy is a thing.  Better than psychologists; Stiles can attest to that.  _Paws & Claws _was all he needed after the last of his family died.

Although, as far as Stiles knows, he’s fairly certain three other Hales survived.  Peter hasn’t mentioned them though, and it isn’t as if Stiles has kept track of them.  It’s none of his business anyway so he doesn’t ask, even if he is curious about why his one and only employee would stoop to pulling too-long shifts for too-little money in the first place when everybody knows the Hales were rich, and the insurance payouts would have only added to that.

Whatever the reason, Peter’s here now, and Stiles is just grateful he’s stuck around for so long.  He’s dreading the end of the trial month because what if Peter’s one of those people who just wants to tough out the thirty days, get their paycheck, and – no matter how much he likes the job – leave after that because the money’s just not enough?

Stiles fervently hopes not, but he can’t _not_ work Peter as hard as he does either.  There’s no point in having a second pair of hands around for the long run if they don’t know exactly what they’re getting into.

Still, he watches Peter walk the dogs and change the litter, clean up messes and slap band-aids on particularly nasty scratches, wade through suspicious geese and carry Capella around, all without complaint, and he thinks maybe this one might stay.

 

* * *

 

At the end of one month, Stiles blurts out, “Are you gonna stay then?”

Peter looks from the hope that the young man is doing a terrible job of hiding behind the towels he’s folding to the Siberian currently sitting on his shoes and staring up at him with the biggest pale blue eyes imaginable, clearly ready and willing to ruthlessly weaponize her cuteness if it looked like Peter was going to walk out for good.

She’s a cat after Peter’s own heart.

He heaves a sigh, stoops down to scoop up Capella, and then looks back at his boss.

“I was wondering,” He says, barely hiding a smile that feels more effortlessly real than he ever thought possible after waking up from the coma when he hears the rumble of Capella’s purr start up.  “If I could come in on the other three days as well on occasion?”  A wry smirk twitches at his lips.  “So long as you feed me on those days, I won’t even ask for pay.”

A towel slips from Stiles’ fingers even as his head snaps up, expression stunned like he honestly expected Peter to refuse.

Peter doesn’t understand why.  Stiles should know or at least have guessed by now that Peter’s got nowhere else to go, no one else to go to either.  If anything, _he’s_ the one who’s still uncomfortably surprised that Stiles has kept him on this long and wants to keep him on even longer, even if he’s desperate.  Peter knows full well his scars tend to scare people away, and business at _Paws & Claws_ might not have been great even before he arrived but his presence certainly doesn’t help matters either.

But it helps the animals, and maybe that really is all Stiles cares about.  At any rate, Stiles – and Capella – obviously wants him to stay, and Peter likes to think they both enjoy his company in addition to appreciating his help, and that…

Peter’s not used to being wanted or even appreciated anywhere, even before the fire.  He’s accustomed to lurking on the edges of a crowd, forever on the outside looking in, even when he’s with people who _should_ want him around, and offering his services to people who take them as their due.

And a cat’s one thing, no matter how clever she is, but for another human being to show him both so freely, well, Peter would’ve stayed for that alone, even without being paid.

It’s pathetic and depressing and Stiles will never know because Peter’s not stupid enough to tell him.  But it’s also the truth, and when Stiles lights up and gives his enthusiastic agreement, consequently setting off the puppies in the next room and prompting Capella to snarl in their direction, Peter can’t quite help smiling back this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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